Deathlands 118: Blood Red Tide

by James Axler

Strawmaker reached over his shoulder and a dozen blasters locked on to him. He slowly held up what appeared to be a ten-string ukulele.

  “Well, then he doesn’t have a guitar!” Atlast protested. “He’s got a bloody opossum with a stick in its mouth!”

  “I believe it is called a charango,” Doc mused.

  “Ah!” Strawmaker pointed at Doc happily. “I see you are a man of culture and discernment.”

  Ryan sensed Oracle was using the banter to his advantage. The captain stood impassively. Strawmaker reached into his saddlebag and produced a gleaming brass instrument. “I play the trumpet. And the piano. Do you have a piano?”

  “Am I to understand you are a minstrel?” Oracle asked.

  “I prefer the term travador, Capitán, but given my circumstances, perhaps wandering minstrel might truthfully apply.”

  Ryan was keeping one ear on the conversation and his one eye through his spyglass on the surroundings. “Captain, mebbe fleeing minstrel might be more accurate.”

  All eyes scanned inland.

  Oracle nodded. “Indeed.”

  Mildred deadpanned. “Wow, charge of the chicken brigade.”

  Nearly a hundred men riding birds like Strawmaker’s boiled out of the dunes for the quay. They carried gleaming eight-foot lances held over one arm, and most had some form of single-or double-barrel blaster over their saddlebows.

  Oracle’s voice went positively droll. “Senor, am I to understand there is a ville whose baron you have offended?”

  “Baron? Ah! Barón! No, Senor Spada would be the Jefe of the estancia.”

  Doc spoke low. “An estancia is a cattle ranch, Captain. Jefe is a chief. In my time, in this land, some estancias were rumored to be the size of small countries. Spada will be every inch a baron. Oh, and Spada means sword.”

  “Thank you, Doc.” Oracle raised his voice. “Tell me, troubadour, how many of Jefe Spada’s women did you impregnate?”

  Strawmaker kept snapping looks backward, but he made a show of offense. “Impregnar!”

  “Despite the willingness of both parties, how many of those lancers have you given good reason to chill you?”

  “I will modestly say...a number. However, in my defense I will also say that one of the said senoritas whispered to me that Spada intended to make me a permanent part of his estancia, and he intended to ensure my service by cutting off one of my feet.”

  “And now?”

  “Now? I believe they intend to strip me and paint my pene white, like the ñandú’s favorite grub.”

  “I gather the ñandús are the birds you ride?” Oracle inquired.

  Strawmaker started taking desperate looks back at the avalanche of oncoming ñandú riders. “Yes.”

  “Go on.”

  Strawmaker cleared his throat. “Then I shall be dragged behind one ñandú at speed while they entice several others to give chase and fight for the prize.”

  Mildred made a face.

  “Then they shall hang me by my hands and use me for lance practice. After that they may decapitate me and play some polo to bring back Jefe Spada a properly abused head, though it is a little cold for it.” Strawmaker took a knee and spread his arms as the lancers descended. “Capitán, I am at your mercy. I will tell you I am not afraid of hardship, and I have played from the Rio Del Plata to the shores of Ushaia. I can be of use to you as a guide, if nothing else.”

  “Do your people recognize the white flag as a sign of truce?”

  Strawmaker sighed as he saw his death. “Si, I believe it is universal.”

  “Commander!” Oracle ordered. “Run up a white flag!”

  The white ensign rapidly shot up the flag line and caught a bit of breeze. Krysty spooned into Ryan unhappily. “What’s the captain doing?”

  Ryan didn’t like it any more than Krysty, but he understood it. “Oracle needs supplies and with luck permission to recruit men, which he needs more than he needs a minstrel. Much less a possible war with a baron and giant chickens riders runnin’ up and down the coast sayin’ the Glory is hostile.”

  Strawmaker carefully put his musical instruments in their cases and neatly piled his belongings. He donned his black hat, wrapped his cape around his left arm, drew his knife and turned to face his tormentors. Four gauchos leaned far out from their saddles and whirled their bolas in huge blurring arcs. They released and the weighted straps scythed toward the musician. Strawmaker sliced one bola neatly out of the air. The next two hit him a heartbeat later at chest height to entangle his arms. The fourth hit him at the knees and toppled him. Ryan’s eye narrowed. Strawmaker was down, but the gauchos weren’t slowing. They spurred forward, lances leveled. Bolas whirled. Those with blasters drew them. Krysty blinked. “You don’t think...”

  The gauchos let out a battle cry. Their birds gave a booming hoot in unison and shoved out short stub wings. The formation charged off the edge of the quay like lemmings. The giant birds spread their massive clawed feet to display webbing. Their wings vibrated and drummed the air like hummingbirds. Some sank up to their backward knees and rose back up, legs churning. Some barely dipped into water at all.

  The charge continued straight across the water.

  “By my stars and garters!” Doc exclaimed. “I have had the pleasure of seeing the Western Grebe dance upon the waters with its mate in courtship, but a giant ratite! Bearing an armed rider and water running! Such adaption is—”

  “Drop the flag of truce!” Oracle ordered.

  The gauchos charged across the cove on their terror birds in a wedge. The cold black waters of the cove boiled white beneath them.

  Commander Miles sliced the cord holding the white flag and it fell toward the deck like a ghost that had been shot out of the air. Oracle watched its descent. Ryan leaped to mainmast and grabbed a half pike from the rack. Krysty took a knee with her ship’s knife and marlinspike in either hand. “Gaia...give me strength...”

  The gauchos howled and whooped, firing their blasters and sending bolas humming through the air. Crewmen ducked. The marksmen in the tops glanced down for the order to fire. Ryan dodged a bola and glanced to Oracle.

  Oracle watched the flag of truce descend. It hit the deck in a sad, white wad. “Full broadside! Mr. J.B.!”

  “All blasters!” J.B.’s voice echoed up the gangway. “Fire!” All eight weapons of the starboard battery discharged canister shot in unison. The Glory rocked upward with the recoil. Huge gray clouds of powder smoke obscured everything. “Reload!”

  Ryan knelt with his lance in one hand and the other on Krysty’s shoulder. She had stopped her Gaia mantra. The fog of powder smoke slowly lifted. The sight of the shredded remains of the gauchos and their mounts bobbing in the surf was horrible. Despite their size, the giant rheas were hollow boned and, having adapted to water, had waterproof plumage. Their canister-cleaved bodies floated on the surface. Some were still alive and honking piteously. It appeared that gauchos did not know how to swim. Most had sunk into the dark water, weighted down by their silver belts and equipment, in addition to the huge lead balls riddling their bodies. Three men clung to their destroyed, still-buoyant mounts, shouting and crying out in Spanish.

  “Mr. Ricky!” Oracle called.

  “Yes, Captain!”

  “Ask those men if they would prefer to swim back to the quay or take ship!”

  “Aye, Captain.” Ricky shouted out in Spanish. The three surviving gauchos shivered in the near freezing water and shouted a response.

  “They would take ship, Captain!”

  “Did they tell you their names?”

  “Gusi, Boca and Gaudiel!”

  “Mr. Forgiven, enter Mr. Goose, Mr. Mouth and Mr. Gaudy as lubbers until signed or proved otherwise!”

  The purser scratched in the book. “Aye, Captain!”

  “Mr. Hardstone, take a few men in the whaleboat and fetch our new shipmates. Take anything of worth off the bodies, man and bird.”

  “Aye, Captain!

  Strawmaker managed to work his bound b
ody up to his knees. “Capitán!”

  “Yes, Senor?”

  Strawmaker raised his chin at the bobbing sea of bloody, giant birds. “I know several excellent methods of barbecuing ñandú!”

  “Mr. Forgiven!”

  “Yes, Captain!”

  “Mark Mr. Strawmaker temporary cook’s assistant, South American affairs consultant, ships minstrel and lubber until signed or proved otherwise.”

  Forgiven’s pen hovered while he briefly internalized all this. “Aye, Captain.”

  Oracle turned his head and regarded the lance in Ryan’s hand. “Make him Mr. Ryan’s responsibility.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ryan’s responsibility for Strawmaker was pretty easy. The troubadour had spent the past forty-eight hours mostly vomiting over the rail and moaning in his hammock while Broiler and Skillet had barbecued, boiled and salted away several thousand pounds of ñandú meat without his help. Ryan had spent that time up in the rigging with Koa. Standing on a rope forty feet in the air, leaning over a spar and hauling up sails by hand in all weather day and night was some of the most dangerous, ball-busting work Ryan had ever engaged in.

  The Lantic was bitterly cold and windy but a hard, bright sun had broken out. Ryan smiled despite himself as he balanced in space and hauled up hundreds of pounds of wet canvas foresail with the rest of the topsmen. Koa snarled in outrage and as yet untamed fear. “You like this shit!”

  “Reef, Koa!” Ryan laughed. “You’re slowing me down!”

  “Fuck you!”

  Koa reefed.

  Manrape called from the other side of the mast as the crew furled and secured the sail. They were so shorthanded the bosun was up in the rigging. “I see your chicken is up and about, Ryan!”

  The one-eyed man looked down and saw Strawmaker stagger toward the rail. He noted that the troubadour wore freshly sewn, stiff pants of ship’s canvas and a bloodstained and patched jersey.

  “Hee’th up and about!” Onetongue called out gleefully as he made a shroud taut on deck. “Give u’th a th’ong, Th’trawmaker!”

  “Yeah, Strawmaker! Sing something sweet!” Sweet Marie chimed in. “That last one you sang for the sea, and it sounded like two sea lions screwing!”

  Strawmaker threw up over the side.

  Sweet Marie shook her head. “I swear it’s the only song he knows!”

  Coarse laughter followed Strawmaker’s gastrointestinal contortions.

  “Ryan, go see to your chickadee,” Manrape ordered.

  “Aye.” Ryan shot down a ratline at a pace he was starting to feel was seaworthy and hit the deck.

  Strawmaker looked up at him miserably. “Senor Ryan...”

  Ryan’s cold blue eye narrowed. Strawmaker flinched. The Deathlands warrior knew the troubadour was yet another test Oracle had thrown at him, and he had very little time to whip Strawmaker into some kind of usefulness.

  “Don’t Senor me, Strawmaker. I’m a seaman. I work for a living. Save it for the captain, the commander and Miss Loral, and save it until you’re spoken too directly. While you’re at it, I’d shit can the Senor and learn sir and ma’am real fast.”

  “Ah, I see.” Strawmaker groaned and clutched the rail. “Thank you, Ryan.”

  Ryan relented slightly. “I see you dressed for work today.”

  “I told the Capitán I would work my passage. I am a man of my word.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Strawmaker gagged again but hardly anything came up but a few viscous strands of spit. He coughed and wiped his chin on his wrist. “Uno momento, Ryan.”

  “Make it fast.”

  Strawmaker tottered unsteadily across the rolling deck.

  “One hand for yourself, one for the ship,” Ryan advised. Strawmaker grabbed a shroud and pulled himself forward. Ryan suddenly realized where he was going.

  Strawmaker shoved his head into the cold water of the open sea barrel to buck himself up. The troubadour erupted backward, screaming, with his long hair sheeting spray.

  Wipe clapped his hands. “He made a rainbow!”

  Strawmaker managed to grab a shroud and his hand went for the knife at his belt he no longer carried. Mr. Squid’s head bubbled up from the barrel, and the golden eyes stared at Strawmaker in what Ryan thought might pass for cephalopod befuddlement.

  “Ryan!” Strawmaker clutched the shroud in horror. “This ship keeps a pet octopus?”

  “Pet!” Atlast walked up and brutally poked Strawmaker in the chest with each exclamation. “He’s a member of the crew. A subaqueous specialist!”

  Strawmaker looked to Ryan in desperation.

  Ryan waved a hand in introduction. “Strawmaker, meet Mr. Squid. Mr. Squid, Strawmaker.”

  Strawmaker searched the faces of the surrounding crewmen, clearly suspecting he was the butt of yet another joke. The crew watched poker-faced to see what might happen next.

  “I see.” Strawmaker made a show of straightening himself and gave a short bow toward the barrel. “Hola, Senor Calama. ¿Como estas usted?”

  Mr. Squid contemplated the Argentine musician before him. “Muy bien, gracias, Senor Pajero. ¿Y tu?”

  Strawmaker screamed. “¡Madre de Armagedón!”

  Mr. Squid contemplated this. “I believe I am an offspring of it.”

  “An eight-armed offspring we are lucky to have, then!” Atlast declared. “Aren’t we?”

  Miss Loral appeared, hurling lightning and thunder. “You can all stand around sucking Mr. Squid’s eight suckered cocks or you can finish your watch and get fed! Mr. Manrape and the hard end of his rope can decide for you if you’re all torn up about it!” The crew went back to its work about ship.

  Miss Loral pointed at Ryan. “You, you’re wanted in the captain’s cabin.”

  “Aye, ma’am.” Ryan smiled. “Ma’am?”

  “Aye, Ryan?”

  “Captain wanted me to train Strawmaker. Can you find something for him to do while I attend the captain?”

  The she-wolf grinned at the minstrel. “I can find something to occupy his time.”

  * * *

  RYAN WALKED IN on another council of war. Doc was there along with J.B. Commander Miles was up out of the med with one arm in a sling and a crutch under the other. Purser Forgiven stood with the book, and Ryan was interested to note that Mildred and Skillet were in attendance. Oracle nodded.

  “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Ryan. I will take reports. Skillet?”

  “Oh, we got barrel after barrel o’ ñandú, Cap’n. And the crew seems partial to it. But neither me nor Boiler ever salted away poultry.” Skillet pushed back his braids and shook his head. “Dunno how long it’ll save. Was chatting up Strawmaker when he wasn’t puking. Says the land is cattle country for thousands of leagues. Now a few good head of beeves, some pigs if they can spare ’em and some salt if someone’s goin’ shoppin’? That might get us around the horn.”

  “Thank you, Skillet. J.B., powder and ammo.”

  “You’re short, Captain. That broadside cost you. The good news is that I reckon their outliers saw that and nobody on this side of the earth will want to mess with you. But if anyone does, it better be short and sweet. Or it goes hand to hand.”

  Oracle nodded. “Mr. Forgiven?”

  “Forgive me, Captain, if this seems like the only song I know, but that ballad is canvas, cordage and wood. No ship in memory has tried the horn in winter without an engine. All the spare rigging we’ve got we took down because it was dangerously worn. They say its storm after storm down there. One or two bad ones, and we’ll be sewing our coats together to make sails.” The fat man shook his head mournfully. “Speaking of coats, Captain. It’s winter and getting colder every sea mile we log south.”

  “Aye, Mr. Forgiven.” Oracle spread the fingers of his remaining hand on the pile of charts before him. “We have nearly a thousand miles of coast to work with. There has to be something to eat. Failing that we’ll whale. Food I am not worried about currently, nor powder, ships supplies or our e
nemies. What I cannot out fight, out sail or improvise against is scurvy. Miss Mildred?”

  Mildred went into full medical doctor mode. “You haven’t had fresh vegetables or fruit on this ship in weeks. From what little I know about scurvy, the influx of ñandú might help. You can get the nutrients you need from the fresh meat of animals that make their own vitamin C.”

  Oracle’s shark eyes stared unblinkingly. “What is vitamin see?”

  Mildred did an admirable job of containing her impatience. “You know limes, lemons and oranges stop scurvy.”

  “All sailors do.”

  “Unlike humans, most animals make vitamin C themselves. So when you eat most animals, you get it. The problem is the meat has to be fresh. I’m afraid that salting away the meat destroys the vitamin C.”

  “Miss Mildred, I have spent my life in the Caribbean, where every island was lush with fruits and vegetables and another island is nearly always just over the horizon. In my sailing experience scurvy has always been a horror story passed on by old salts. Are they true?”

  “Probably every horror story you heard was true. You need vitamin C to maintain your mucous membranes and collagen, among other things.” Mildred met more blank looks. She shifted gears. “Short version, if you don’t get vitamin C, the body starts breaking down. Initial symptoms include weakness, lethargy and shortness of breath. As it progresses, the skin breaks out in sores and the gums start bleeding. When it gets bad, the teeth start falling out and scar tissue—and every member of your crew has old wounds in abundance—starts breaking open. New injuries won’t heal. Jaundice, bone pain and hair loss ensue. Except for the swelling and edema, you end up looking like a radiation victim. It ends in fever, convulsions and a very unpleasant death.”

  Commander Miles’s jaw set grimly. “Captain, I beg you. Turn and fight Dorian, and then the rest of the Sabbaths, until we put them all down in the Old Place or they do us.”

  “He has engines, Commander,” Oracle noted. “All he has to do is turn one broadside toward us and blast us into kindling.”

  “Better than what lies south.”

  Ryan tended to agree. The cabin went silent. Doc suddenly straightened and nearly hit his head. His long fingers tapped the table. Ryan felt a faint ray of hope. He had seen this behavior in various forms many times before. Doc was rummaging through what could be charitably described as the extremely random access memory of his mind. “Captain?”